


The Deity

by PaisleyWraith



Series: Paisley's Deity [1]
Category: South Park
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Character Death, M/M, Very stylized writing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-30
Updated: 2020-05-26
Packaged: 2021-02-27 13:14:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 13,817
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22027648
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PaisleyWraith/pseuds/PaisleyWraith
Summary: In tales long forgotten, an Elven Princeling struggles to find his path, traveling on a simple journey to complete his Coming-Of-Age ritual. Simply offer a God of your world something and go back home. Simple. Or perhaps not.
Relationships: Kyle Broflovski/Kenny McCormick
Series: Paisley's Deity [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1592665
Comments: 16
Kudos: 95





	1. Chapter 1

In the East, over the Valley, in the shadowed, brambled Forest, a Kingdom stood with spiraling towers that led deep within the Earth. 

It was here the Elves lived, among warm glowing light against carved rock, the artisans of the world weaving silver-light string and threading gemstone beads of color. Sharp swords of space-rock, gleaming white and black, handles made of bone for slim fingers to wield with deadly grace. 

Such a Kingdom, secluded and proud, held itself to tradition, and to tradition it’s People were expected to hold themselves also. Not forced, but encouraged, the Leaders of the Kingdom showing the way for all. 

Thus, it was laid upon their Crown Prince to complete his Coming-Of-Age. Being traditional did not mean the Kingdom was not progressive; the Prince did not need to fight a dragon, or rescue a maiden, or even marry. He must only be Educated, learn the proper way to wield a weapon of choice, and to choose a Deity. 

“Why?” The Impertinent Young Prince demanded to know, frizzing coiled curls frizzing all the more in indignation. Velvet waistcoat and orange hair clashed spectacularly as he stood before his parent’s Throne, hands clasped to keep them from resting on his hips and completing the irritable stance. 

“Because you are already Educated, and know the proper way to wield a weapon,” His parents replied, “And we must show our People the ways of Tradition. So you must go, and choose a Deity.” 

The Crown Prince was Wild, Impertinent, and Unfriendly. But even an unruly child does, at some level, fear their parents over all. So the boy packed a single bag only, with food and clothing, strapped his Bow of Ash Wood and Whale Bone to his back, and set off into the Forest to the Shrines. 

Sunlight filtered through the leaves, barely making it to the Forest floor. The Prince carried his boots and walked barefoot across the Wood, moss cool and gentle against his skin. He stepped over waterbeds full of tadpoles, over brambles sheltering fox cubs. Sunlight warmed his skin and the Wind ruffled his hair lovingly. His Journey was simple, as it had been for his Parents, and their Parents, and their Ancestors. 

Under starry skies and wispy clouds he traveled, Hunting to stretch the life of his bread and drinking from crisp blue Springs. He approached the Shrines at last, with dirt on his skin, food in his stomach, and Doubt in his heart. 

Columns stretched to the sky, twisted black things of multiple colors, before them all lay statues of Bone or Marble. 

Those his People chose had offerings before them, Jewels and Cloth and Plants that grew upon their bodies without causing the Marble to crack. Spellbooks wrapped in handmade leather, Weapons forged from personal flames, Bones from hunts of legend. 

The Prince stood before them all, boots clacking against foliage-claimed tile. Shadows rotated around him as he waited, thinking, deciding. 

Doubt, an inky wretched thing, cradling itself to his chest and showing it’s fangs. Should he choose Wisdom? Intelligence? War? These were the Deities of a Ruler, as he would soon be. A slain rabbit or clear gem would be enough to please them. A simple Journey, after all. One to be taken once you were Ready for the throne. 

Ready. Everyone told him he was Ready. Everyone except for the Prince himself. He went along with Education, with being properly taught how to Fight, with being Perfectly Princely when pushed hard enough. Just pick a Deity and leave. Return home and celebrate the last bit of his Coming-Of-Age. 

The Elf fidgeted, as unlike an Elf as he could be, watching spires become dark as shivs in the night. 

He sat, in the middle, circled by the Deities of the Forest, watching the Moon arch into the Skies. 

Unobserved and Alone, the Prince hid his face, proud shoulders falling under the weight of Expectation and Assumptions. Unruly twins, those two, when paired with Doubt might lead to Despair. Perhaps even to someone Proud and Unruly. 

Elves are Patient beings of long Life. To the Prince, young though he be, it seemed only a few moments passed. He raised eyes of Cold, hidden Ire, and caught a glimpse of a bare Shrine. 

It would be unnoticeable with the bright sun illuminating White Shrines, the busy colors of gifted plants and colored gems catching the eye. Under the cold glow of the Moon, light caught Immortal eyes through the brush. 

Tender Elven hands shred, spilling blood onto grass, but vines were stripped carefully away from the Shrine. 

Unlike the clearly Beast or People form of other Deities, the Prince could not outright make out who this Deity was. Cast in rough iron and unreflective, spirals of snakes or eels swarmed a stumbling, clutching Body. 

Male or Female? Hard to say, as it almost always were with Deities. The Elven Prince cleared the pedestal to run stained fingers over Elder Runes. 

Being Educated, words of rotting tongues were spilt through fresh lips. Death, he thought at first, but Death was it’s own Deity behind him. Who was this, forgotten and rotted under years of bramble? 

No…the Deity was clutching it’s own side, it’s own insides, but it’s eyes were Cunning and Triumphant. Death is involved, yes, but this is a Deity of Rebirth. 

The Prince settled, cross-legged, bruised hands clutching velvet. His Parents would want him to choose Enlightenment, Foresight, Fury. Something that would Bless the Family Name further as years went on. 

Rebirth could offer him nothing, so the Elven Prince offered him Spite. 

“I could choose a Deity that would Benefit me,” The Prince told the ugly metal, “I wanted to follow Tradition, but I do not feel Ready at all. Wrath and Mindfulness and Love mean Nothing to me, even if They should. So I will choose You, since You have nothing on Your altar.” 

Rebirth’s Altar was little more than a metal tray, barren and rough at the edges due to weathering. The Elven Prince, with moonlight illuminating Magic-knit skin, slung the carefully-stitched bag from his shoulder. 

“I’ve made these arrows myself,” He told the Deity, slimming fingers down to soft fletching, “From wood I smoothed on my own, glass I shaped and sharpened, feathers of birds I shot. Should Rebirth value hard work, I offer you what I have created.” 

With this, he left the pale arrow lying, deadly point clacking against the pedestal. 

“I expected to leave behind a carcass,” The Elf confessed, “But I am unsure as to what a Deity of Rebirth thinks of either Life or Death. So I will give the food I have left from Home to you, as it is all I have to offer.” 

Bread turning stale and tough, settled next to the arrow. Grapes that were sweet as Healing Elixer dropped next, all he had left. But things, things so better done in threes. He was Proud, after all, and preferred to do things correctly. 

“I, Myself, am Elven Prince,” The boy spoke again, “Named and chosen for the Throne. It is due to my Name that I am here, my Blood, and the Blood I have shed to free your shrine I offer you. May the vines split around your Presence on our Plane.”

And with that, the Well-Spoken Prince rose, shaking the cramps from his legs, all slender boots and golden embroidery. Doubt was replaced by Relief, and just a bit of Glee, the Impertinent little Elf was pleased enough that he could travel home. 

Without rest, as it was Unholy to rest in the presence of Deities, without a footprint left behind the Prince left the clearing. In his wake lay an artisan arrow created by a passionate boy, food from the realm he loved, and blood of labor, of curiosity. The only remnants an Elf leaves is what they desire to leave. 

It is only forty minutes to dawn. The Elven boy’s heart was lighter. His smile was all-too-pleased. He whistled, even, calling back to birds shaking the dew on their feathers. It was warming, it was sunlit. 

It was Life from the Darkness. 

It was not with a flash, not with shadow, not with a pile of bones at foot or blood spilling from lips. 

It was as if He were another tree, standing watch over the Forest, over the Elven boy whistling to flighty creatures of flight. 

The Elf’s sharply pointed ears didn’t even twitch. It wasn’t noise that made him notice Him, but whatever makes an Elf silent in step and sharp of eye. 

It took even an Elf a good seven second to nock an arrow. The Being was not shot with arrow but thwacked soundly across the head by wood and bone of an Elven-Made bow. 

A secondary use. 

The Elf spun the bow around nimble fingers, boots sliding shoulder-width apart, heels digging into soft Earth the way Elves only can intend. Sickly, gemlike green eyes, Unmerciful and Fiery. 

Faerie-Blue. The color of Skies across Oceans, Lazy, Dangerous, Playful. Spun locks of gold, a youthful, androgynous face. A slender and lean body, built to Flee or to Fight, draped with layer upon layer of sheer, Mist-Spun fabric. 

An Elf, born of Magic, War, and Wisdom, knows a Deity when it sees one. The Elfling, however, did not sink to a knee, which would have earned him Death from another. 

Here, it earned him a cuff behind the pointed ear and a choppy laugh. 

Frozen, an Elf is otherworldly pretty, it is difficult for an Elf to drop the extreme sense of Importance they carry. Once Pride leaves an Elven face, you can see the Wear, the Mortality, the years of Lineage and it is Beautiful. 

Even still, he could not outshine the Deity. 

He was touching his own ear, many-ringed fingers tracing remnants of pain. The Deity laughed again, sending fragile-boned birds scattering and made scavengers raise their heads. 

It tilted It’s head, lips curving, spreading arms unadorned under sheer fabric. The ends of the many-ended cloak fluttered in the wind. 

“Rebirth,” The Deity said, “Flourishing, is to whom you speak, Elven Prince. By your Work, your Food, your Blood, I see Skies once again.”

“It is my Duty to care for my Deity,” The Prince answered correctly, spine straight and cheeks white, “I understand I am Blessed, for You and Yours have not been seen in person for generations of my People.” 

“For those who cling so tightly to Tradition,” Rebirth smiled, “Your People change much. You yourself can’t even believe what you see.” 

“No,” The Prince admitted, “I know much about Yours, though nothing of You. Appearances are uncommon.” 

“And yet you slap a Deity across with face with a bow you’ve made of your own hands!” Rebirth’s unnatural eyes smiled along with It’s mouth. “Much you know of Mine, indeed.” 

“Mouthy,” The Prince accused boldly, pointing with slender weapon, “I will not be Teased.” 

“Teased you are, anyhow, Little Princeling,” A step, quiet as an Elf’s, bare and slender feet centered by swirling fabric. “A God Teases you.” 

“Which is how I have tolerated it,” A weapon is lowered and so are defenses. Another unnatural laugh, a begrudging smile follows. 

“Fearless little Prince,” Another step, long golden locks spilled over shoulders that previously had been bare. “You act is if I cannot see nervousness. Will you hit me again now that I have mentioned it?” 

“Do all Deities have such utterly Bad Manners?” Was the retort, though the Elf now merely rested against a tree, not so much as disturbing the bark. “I may still. Will You remain in place for it?” 

“Perhaps once I know you better,” Rebirth’s locks flowed down Their back. “I will have this Opportunity, now.” 

The Elven Prince shifted, simply from heel to toe on his right foot, but this was not unnoticed. 

“Oh, I shall know you better,” Faerie blue eyes wander, explore, take in new territory with the rush of a new Journeyman. “Know much of Mine, Elfling? You intend to build My Shrine at your Home.”

“Of course,” The Impertinent Prince replied, “As is Tradition. Though my Parents may anticipate…An Other.” 

“A Deity who Blesses you so should be Revered,” Was the replying sniff, “And one so Merciful. Patient. Understanding. They will understand.” 

Hill-Green eyes point to the sky. 

“Ah, ah, you have a Deity,” Where locks reached the ground there were now barely curling over rounded ears, “I am Rebirth, but Deities are not singularly talented. Bring your worries to Me, Princeling, and I shall calm them.” 

“I acted rashly,” The Prince admitted, “And might hear of it later.” 

“Ah! Was that Humility?” The dangerous and amused sparkling of eyes. “You chose well, Elfling. You are well beyond the years to worry.” 

“Deities do not have parents.” 

“Deities sometimes do.” 

“Deities do not have _my_ parents.” 

This laugh was low, close enough to feel, sheer fabric brushing velvet, smoothing over pale skin. 

“True,” Rebirth admitted with the softness of downy feathers, “But it will end well for you. I am here, now. You will learn what this all means soon.” 

“You seem certain,” The Prince lifted his chin only slightly, to meet Their eyes, beautiful and dangerous but easy to view. 

“I am certain of very few things,” The Deity replied, “I know I needed you, and you need me, and we will only strengthen from here.” 

“Perhaps,” A murmur, only audible in the oddly-quiet Forest. 

“Find your Pride, again, Elfling,” Warmth flooded syllables as the edges of the world blurred into beautiful tones of violet, “And take me Home.” 

As solid as all had been, Nothing now lay ahead of him. 

A velvet coat in golden stitching, dirtied with the joy of Freedom and Nature, expanding and contracting quickly with each breath. 

There is a new light in eyes as green as Poison, something Otherworldly, of Another Plane. 

Reborn, the Princeling continues home.


	2. Chapter 2

Clacks of stone and skittering leaves, a woolen cloak touches the ground and stirs the dirt. An Elven Prince with no rings on long fingers continues to Build for his Deity. 

The Moon filters through the open roof hundreds of feet in the air, carved dead Gods spill over the walls, onto the roof. Crumbling limbs outstretch towards the Elfling, who ignores them all. 

The oldest part of the Kingdom is Silent and Unforgiving. He is Trespassing until his Deity agrees to take him, after all. Life should never stir in this Place. 

The Elven Prince sits in front of his Shrine, metal and stone and gem, built to be Sturdy and to shine, Clean and Neat and Thoughtful. Soft linen wraps covered soothed wounds on Elven skin, caught on rough edges of stone and tugged. 

A catch, a snag, The Prince brought his finger to his lips. Split skin in Service to his Deity he wouldn’t complain about, no matter the sting. To be Approached was a grand Blessing, one only held by Elder Years. 

And in these Elder Years, the times the crumbling Gods about him were carved and Loved, a Deity did more than be something you attached your Name to. 

They Accepted you. But one had to win Them first. 

One would Battle for Deities of War, recite Poetry for Gods of Word and Intellect, offer Blood for sadistic Divinities of Hate. 

Choose, Gods would, with beastly claws that rake in cobwebs, slender fingers of fragile-boned glass, wisps of stars. To Take, To Offer. 

So long had it been, and now his Family chose the same Deity, built a Shrine, wrote Their Name in their walls and called it done. 

But he’d met Eyes of unnatural, shattered Blue, and knew a Name carved into walls would not be enough. 

“Rebirth,” The Prince’s voice remained Proud as always, Strong and Ethereal. “I ask Your Presence, Your Consideration, Your Acceptance. Travel Free between Worlds and be welcomed to my Home, to make Yours, now and ever after.” 

His voice rang against marble skirts, shivered crackling brick, then faded, whispering back into the ground like the dead crumbling leaves. 

Nothing stirred, and the Elf was not Patient. Soft shufflings of nervousness disrupted the heaviness of the air, and hissing, spitting snarls curled into the room. 

Fluttering black snarls snagged on long legs, ropes of writhing limbs wrapped onto his ankles, spilling ink onto velvet. Stone and leaves were Mist, purplish on the softened edges and black as the Void. 

The world tasted bitter, Elven eyes burned against the fumes, and a gangling Body dragged Itself from the floor to stand, emaciated and leaving droplets of black blood in It’s wake. 

“Home,” Unholy Blue Eyes spit liquid forth, “Home, Elfling? Are you Certain?” 

The Figure wore no clothes and hardly skin. Ribs were exposed, bones sticking from purple-black wounds from stomach to throat. A beating heart, pulsating violet, sending ripples of Life through veins in body and wrist. 

A too-wide smile, jaw unhinged like a fattened snake, blood and tears streaking the face of a God. 

“Yes. Be Frightened,” The Deity hissed, “I am not Life. I am not Death. I am Rebirth, the torment of Life-to-Death-to-Life again, Forever and Eternity’s End. Forever and Eternity you intend to ask, do you still?” 

“Should I ask if this is Your True Self?” The Elf asked uncertainly, watching lungs expand and contract in a hollowed chest. 

“True Self?” The God mocked, “Little Prince. I am Everything and Nothing. I am not Bound like you are, to world and laws and certain truths.”

Another breath, dragged like a leaking corpse from a cart, wet and death and Smelling. 

“Disappointed,” Unholy Eyes lit amused, “That you can’t admire clear skin, search for curve and muscle, gape at flowing curls and the strict angle of a face. Aren’t you?” 

“Unfair,” The Elf murmured, as one did not Lie to a Deity without Death, “You wished to Startle me. You Intended for this reaction.” 

“Do not accuse a God, Little Elf,” The Being jeered, “One will not Live long. You are lucky that I am Merciful and Understanding.” 

The Elf was nothing if not a Bold and Reckless child, one who’s quick Mind searched for Solutions over Propriety. Thus, the child asked for something he knew he had no right to. 

“May I touch You?” 

There, the Deity jerked, sneer turning to confusion and watching in uncanny, unblinking suspicion. “Touch Me?”

“You touch me already,” The Elf shifted, moving writhing limbs to the side with soft-worn leather boots, “See?” 

Silence, not unlike the stirring of leaves. Slowly the creeping, grabbing things moved to the side, a pathway not unlike a trail in a brier. 

“Come, then,” The Deity allowed, “And touch.” 

Approach the Deity, with all the Carefulness of seeking a den of wolf pups to Tame. Silent Elven steps, the Proud raise of a chin, Resolution in a heart that burned aflame. 

A pace away, the Prince stopped, boots shoulder-width apart. 

The Deity may not be Death, but They reeked of it. It made his eyes water, stung his throat. 

“Touch Me,” The God taunted, “You stare only. You will learn to open your Prideful little mouth without first Thinking, one day.” 

“You speak much,” The Prince wrinkled his nose, “About what You believe I think. You know me not yet.” 

“I am a God,” Inky blood spilled from his mouth, “And Know All.” 

“You are not Knowledge,” The Prince’s bandaged hand hesitantly raised, “You are Rebirth.” 

“Deities are not one-trick only, Princeling,” The weeping Creature reminded him again. 

Injured fingers traced soft patterns over a tearing cheek, staining bandages black as the Void. It swiped, gentle as whispers, as if to dry a child’s weeping. 

The Deity stares, exposed heart beating, bones shifting with each Breath. 

An Exploration, of sorts. One heart beats with Life, the other in Death. One far faster than the other. 

“Are you Hurting?” The Prince asks, Bold hand hovering over exposed, rotting collarbone. 

“Am I Hurting?” Softness turned to Wrath twisted an already-Unholy face. “Am I _Hurting_ , Elf Child? Do you not _See_?”

“You are a God,” The Elf’s eyes alit with Ire, “Not an Elf. Should I know?” 

Anger, low and rumbling. The limbs around the floor writhed anew, stinking of Death and Rage. 

The low musk of it all made the Elf cough, into a velvet sleeve. 

“Be aware you do not stain the embroidery,” The God watched, cold. 

“Why do You come this way, if You do not like my reactions?” The Elfling snapped. “I cannot Please You, clearly.” 

“Clearly-” A snatch of Impropriety, a child reaching for sweet-baked rolls.

The God gaped, slippery chin held within thin hands. 

“I am not Afraid,” The fiery-haired Child thundered, “I want You as my Deity. This, Another, whatever Beast or Creature You Desire. Fight with me or else Relent, I am not a frightened child for you to mock!” 

Scrutiny, bleeding lips parted to breathe, vapors of Death against his own skin. 

“If You are in Pain, can I Ease it?” The trace of scabbing skin from chin to ear, “Or are You just here to Frighten me?” 

There is Silence. The heaviness after ill news, the moment before a Sentencing. 

A laugh, sweet as honeysuckle, the last trace of Sunshine among Death and Darkness. 

“Oh, what would you do for Me, Elfling?” Matted bloody hair, hidden wounds under wandering fingers, “Proud, Obnoxious little Prince. I am afraid I may grow Fond of you, soon.” 

“This depends on what You ask me to do,” Responded the Elf, “And I would not complain should that be so.”

“I should think not,” Rebirth muttered, though blackened eyelashes. “But no, Elfling, there is Nothing. This is not a Voluntary Action on My part. Rebirth is Life and Death both, and the Suffering both bring.” 

A caress of matted hair, at just the base of the neck, and the limbs around them stilled before falling like ash of a raging forest. 

“Rebirth, Rebirth, Liver of Life and Death,” The Elf Prince was Haughty and Smug, “I ask Your Acceptance and Residence, should You choose me Worthy of what You are.” 

“No grudges, Elfling?” Another twinkling laugh from a sunken face, “It is Well. What would you do with an Apology from a God?” 

“Accept it, I suppose,” The Elf replied airily. 

“Very well. Accept it, then,” Broken, twisted fingers reach for bandages, cooling them through the cloth. “And Accept you, I shall soon. Rejoice.” 

“Rejoicing,” Lovely Elven voices were often laced with Smarm. This, however, was warmer, the brush of sunlight on springtime petals for the first time. “As once You’ve Accepted me, it is too late to complain of my manners any longer.” 

“Incorrect,” Bleeding, inky lips touched bandages, “I shall complain all the more. I deserve to be Worshipped.” 

“Worship You I shall, in my own way.” Injured fingers brushed bloody lips, “You will be used to it.” 

“You shall be used to Me, also,” The rotted, bleeding Creature was softened by a twisted smile, “I shudder to think of how Familiar you shall be with Me by then- Whatever are you doing now?” 

The Elven Princeling paused, ink-stained bandages reaching for the Shrine. “Whatever do You mean?” 

“Hush, Princeling,” The Corpse smiled wryly, “I mean are you Unsatisfied with your created Shrine? I find it palatable.” 

“As is Tradition,” The Prince said with all surprise, “I shall add You to my Family Shrine, and offer You something of Mine to keep.” 

With this, elegant fingers picked a smooth and beaten ring, a nicked and roughened shield at it’s front. 

“My Crest,” The Princeling gestured, offering forth both ring and smile, “Unused as of yet. I shall someday be King, you see.”

“I see,” The Deity was amused, and reached broken, dripping fingers. “Give it, then.” 

“Give it, then?” The Princeling took the ring away. “Would you like it or not?” 

“You are not King yet, Dear One,” Limp fingers cracked as they wiggled, flaps of skin opening to reveal sinew. “Give me the ring.” 

Pretty, soft lips, pressed unhappily, but the ring was given willingly. “Very well.” 

A soft hum and the ring is taken, rotted flesh closing around metal. 

“How did your Parents react to your Choice?” The God asked with twinkling eyes. “I did wonder.” 

“Unwell,” The Princeling’s tone was stiff. “But I expected this.” 

“Interesting,” The Deity began to move, crackling bone and squishing muscle in an elegant semicircle. “Back in Old Times, a Family picked a new Deity each time. I am supposed to Watch you, Elfling, until Time’s End. You and Yours, forever.” 

Tall cheekbones hued to the color of copper curls. “Oh?” 

“ _Oh_ ,” A smile slashed wide, fresh blood pouring between teeth, “So I ask you again, Elven Prince, Heir-to-Throne, are you Certain?” 

“Yes,” They meet again, the two figures, face to face. “I am Certain.” 

“So be it,” The tilt of a head and breaking of a neck, “You Are Accepted, Princeling.”

A newly-built Shrine split, cracking like lightning and twice as bright. 

Another step, slow and fluid, limbs rise like horrible Sea creatures towards the Sun, blocking the Light. 

“You and Yours, until the End Times where I shall Perish, with nothing left to Bring Back from Death. Your Blood is Mine, Your Family is Mine, Your Spirit and Your Worship. Mine."

The spit of thick blood in the absolute Void. 

"Go forth and Be Mine, Forevermore.” 

Dropping like ropes, the writhing limbs fell, sending Crumbling Deities to the ground.

The Elven Prince lifted his hands to shield a fair face, peering in the aftermath, to see not a hair or footstep in Their place. 

Blackened, fraying bandages on scabbing fingers fell below a leather belt, as bits of Earth hit crumbling stone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know how long this will go, I keep expecting to end it and more comes. So have another chapter and we'll see!


	3. Chapter 3

Spirals of metal clacked against the Shrine, trailing dark lines behind fingers doused in sweat. A heaving chest under loose linen began to slow, fuller and cleaner breaths as a Heart was Soothed. 

Soft light, a gentle Star poured into the crumbling Caverns, old Deities staring blankly as a living God stepped forth on bare feet. 

An Elven Prince scrambled, footsteps unbearably loud to pointed ears in Panic. 

“A Pardon, Rebirth,” The courteous Prince spoke in tumbling words, “This was not a Summon.” 

“Ease yourself, Dearest,” The Ethereal Being replied, a twinkling laugh under Sky-lit eyes. “I Accepted your Gift and chose to come forth.” 

“I Offered no Gift,” The Elf replied, all apologies, a half-bow of Propriety. “Forgive my appearance, I was not Prepared.” 

“As I Took your Blood of Labor, I Take your Sweat also,” Flawless, smooth-skinned fingers reach, of Their own Desire, to pull soaking curls from a Stately forehead. A raised eyebrow, Amusement coloring Sensuality spoken. “No? Did you lose your Fight?” 

“Forgive me,” The un-Princely dodge caused pinkish cheekbones, “I was Sparring only.” 

“Why are you so certain of My Disappointment?” Gold-spun locks shook as a hand was again offered, sheer fabric tumbling off a slim shoulder, “Such an Ego in a wildly Insecure Creature? Do you know that I am Aware of what I ask? Allow Me.” 

“As wished,” The Prince held still, cringing at the sloppy unsticking of hair. 

Silence, warm and Unnatural, a formless dress fluttered in invisible breezes as a head tilts, exposing slim neck tracing upwards to a firm jaw. 

Fingers traced over sharp cheekbones over soft cheeks, shining like the gems set in spiraling rings. Second by second, a Heart slows again, shoulders slumping as red-tinged eyelashes close. 

“Soft, Prideful little Prince,” Bare hands trace a throat, feeling a swallow under fingertips, “Speak what you were, before I Frightened you just now. What brings you to your God?” 

“I am not making You an Analyst of my Problems,” The Prince protests, though greenish eyes look hungry. “I came only in Frustration. I meant no Summon.” 

Silence, piercing Ethereal eyes watch, Knowing, Pleased, and Content. 

“I am Spoiled,” The Prince admitted, “And Prideful.” 

“Indeed you are,” The God agreed. 

“Foolish,” The Prince bites his lip, “And spoke rashly to the last Friend I have. I may have lost him.” 

“Then best apologize, what hesitations have you?” A smooth chest exhales, slow, shimmering fabric, “A King should not have a Temper, Youngling.” 

“I feel as though I am Unchanging,” Eyes close against the caress of hair, “I am no different than I were a year, two, ten behind. I am expected to Change, but I will not.”

“Will not?” The raise of an eyebrow and a smile. 

“Everyone else is swift with evolution of Personality, Morals, Loyalty. I am the same child I were at nine.” 

A hand, wearing a single golden ring holding a family’s Crest, trails full-palmed to rest over a Heart. 

“My Father would wish my Brother take the Throne, instead,” The Prince admitted, “Worse is all I can Understand.” 

“You are close?” The Deity’s form seemed to waver, a ripple in an eternal bond, water-leaves tapping the glassy surface. 

“He is Loved,” A sigh presses against a palm, “By me. And he Loves me also. But we are Different. Different in Personality, even Different Species.” 

“Species,” The Being looks intrigued. 

“Human, he was Adopted into the Crest,” Bright green eyes jerk to meet an amused gaze, “If not Bloodline, will You and Your Kind watch him also, I have no other Siblings-”

“My Protection is to your Bloodline, not Parental or Siblings, though if you Love him dearly, yes. I should include him also. But.” 

Thick, fierce brows furrow as they wait. A simple smile, difficult to see in such a perfect face, the tracing of patterns over a plain tunic. 

“Should others I am watching over Feud, I will always choose you and the one you directly Endorse after you. Should you and your Brother ever fight, I will be Devoted to you, and you only- Oh?” 

Pink turns to red and the Princeling jerks away entirely. The God of Rebirth laughs, loud and bright. 

“You Enjoyed the word?” A God’s gaze was Devilish. “Should I rave about my _Devotion_ to you, Your Highness?” 

“Prestigious Titles are not Appropriate for a God to bestow on a Mortal,” The Prince was scrambling, stepping outside of the stretch of an arm. 

“I doubt what just happened was Appropriate, either.” 

“You Tease me,” The pretty Elven boy said with all the misery of an embarrassed child, “Unjustly.” 

“Unjust?” Both brows raised, eyes glinting like Crystals embedded in Caverns miles below. 

“You should not touch me, Speak with me, seemingly Care about my Thoughts and Feelings,” The Prince drew himself up to his full height, stately jaw set. “And be Surprised if I am Affected.” 

“Is this all it takes to win an Elven Prince?” Rebirth steps forward again, smiling, skirts not even disturbing the dirt. “A touch, Attention, Kindness?” Just as quickly, the God stops, brows furrowing. “Apologies, Dear One. I’ve upset you.” 

“I need not my Deity to Apologize,” The Stiff manner in which he Bowed made the other frown. “For my Mortal Failings.” 

“I see,” Crafty, Oceanic eyes watch, closely, pretty lips pressing. “Oh, Princeling. Soft-Hearted, Ever-Pleasing Child, look into My eyes a moment.” 

A mossy gaze is Guarded and Ashamed but lifts anyhow. Pride is simmering through his body like blood through veins. 

“If I am pushing the Propriety of a Relationship between a God and Their Devotee, this is My Failing alone,” A hand was waved, as if to soothe the stale air standing between them, “I can See you losing Sleep over this. I might speak Vainly, but do not. I ask for your Obedience and Propriety and then push for Improper Behavior.” 

“I need not Your Apology,” The other spoke more softly than They had heard yet, “Of course I would gain a Playful Deity. I remain in this way, I Refuse it.” 

“Now you speak out of turn, truly,” The God warned, “But I can almost say nothing to it. I will say, then, instead, that your Guilt and the Expectations you cling to so Fiercely are marring you. In appearing as your Idea of Perfection, you Destroy what you have.” 

“Thank you,” Lips barely move around the words, though the figure bows again. 

“No. You will not thank Me,” Rebirth draws themself upwards also, taller than the Prince by the width of a hand, “Your dearest Friend, your Brother, your Mother and Father. In your Ideals you alienate them all, will you alienate your Deity also?” 

When the other tries to retreat, the God steps forward, shapeless gown flowing, skirts so long they nearly embrace the Elf. Perfect hands grasp a chin, firm and without hesitation. 

“You are a self-fulfilling prophecy,” The God’s voice is deep, low, the rumbling before a quake. “In trying to remain Perfect you frustrate all around you. No one shall ever be truly Happy with your behavior, Elfling. There are too many people to Please, too many Differences within them, to create a Persona that is all-admired.”

“I do not understand.” 

“I Know, Dearest. I Know,” Fingers cup a face, hold it within all-powerful hands. “You need to Listen. Should I offer an Apology to you, you cannot Refuse it, despite your Hurt, in want of being Below me and instead outright Defying something in which I Offer you. Do you understand this?” 

“Yes,” The Elf replies, as thumbs trail over cheekbones.

“Same Principle, little Prince. I am sure with your Friend, your Brother also. Are you Ever-Unchanging or are you simply holding too tightly to Ideals you’ve set from a Young Age? Are you simply the Same or will you not allow yourself to Evolve?” 

“I am not sure,” The air around them is still. Dead Gods look on upon Rebirth and Their Elfling Prince, standing alone in front of a fresh Shrine. 

“You have time to Think,” The God Reassures him, “You are Young and I am here to ensure you Live Long and Well. But I will Offer you again, something as I have Hurt you and I never wish for that. I am Sorry.” 

A ringed hand raises, takes a wrist, Boldly, but with the Softest of Touches.

“Thank you,” The Elf says, quietly, with eyes as Serious as the Forest Heart, “For the Apology, and Your Understanding.” 

“Of course,” The God allows Their hand to be guided, taken, in a Tender hold. “However though I am a God, I can only Try to Understand. But I shall.”

Mortal lips press to Divine fingers. 

A smile graces a face, Perfect in every feature, Joyful and Sweet. 

“I will take Care to try and keep our Relationship Appropriate for our Positions,” The Deity promised, “You Attempt to find out Who keeps you from Becoming New. And.” 

The boy is so quiet, Exhaustion flowing from his pores. 

“I can Hear, if you speak at my Shrine,” The God revealed, “And I Enjoy listening. Sleep tonight.” 

With the shock of Light, the zip of Living Energy, the Prince is left alone with the stone and dirt of Years past for Company.


	4. Chapter 4

A Prince’s quarters were wrapped in satin, velvet, and gold. Shivering drapes surrounded the bed like guarding ghosts. Behind the feather-filled pillows twisted tarnishing metal in landscapes, delicate leaves on thin branches extending to the ceiling. 

_Menel, dihena i ogol,_

On the bed, the Crown Prince of the Elves lays, counting glittering stones embedded in the thick rock ceiling. 

_Gwedeir draga-pam bregol._

An old, ancient prayer pours from his lips, a singing thing meant to sooth the Self, a Story old as the Mountains themselves. 

_Godrebh iphant tawar,_

Not all Elves are adept at singing, despite the Stereotype, but there is something Haunting and Solemn even in the most pitchy of Elven voices. Something that curls around the Darkness, beckons the Moon forth. 

_Suilanna a glawar._

Elves are Things of Nighttime and Forests, of Magic and Metal, of Spirit and Space. So are the Songs they sing. 

So is the creature that lies in the bed among satin sheets, with curtains fluttering among cavernous drafts. Ringed fingers trace the outline of pillows, with elegant caresses and twists of wrists. 

Gnarled, Rotting fingers twist into sheets, heaving a sliming Corpse to the end of a bed covered in gold-stitched sheets like a fat slug over logs.

The Elf is pressed against the metal trees of his own accord, Regality left for Fear. 

“Peace, Elfling,” The Corpse spits, claws shredding sheets, “It is I, only.” 

“Deity of mine,” The Elf’s heart beats in his throat, though he moves to sit again, “Forgive me. This was also not a Summon.” 

“You’ve yet to Summon me,” The God heaved Themself onto the bed, blackened Blood dripping from lips, “Forgive the Intrusion.” 

“What is mine is Yours, this was apparent with your Acceptance,” Regardless, greenish eyes looked distressed at the Mess. “Be Received.” 

“Received?” The Playful smirk of a God is shiver-inducing and Terrible. “Oh, Dear One. Not tonight.” 

“As I predicted, Your Promise to attempt Propriety fall flat,” The Prince notes as Blood drips onto his sheets. “A Bad Night for You, is it?” 

“There are Worlds beyond your comprehension, Dearest,” The Creature seems to flicker around the edges, like the Shadows one sees walking on Unholy nights, “I often wish they were beyond Mine.” 

“I’ve often Wondered,” The Elf says, settling back against soft downy pillows, “Part of my Education was on such a topic.” 

“Curious, then?” The God draws Themselves further onto the bed. “Be glad you cannot travel Realms. There are far less Benevolent Creatures than I involved in Mortal Lives.” 

“You have treated me with Kindness,” The Elf kindly allows, “I have a question that may Offend. May I ask it of You?” 

“You may.” A clump of flesh falls from the Beast, sizzling into Nothingness and burning holes in the sheets. 

“Where do you stand, in Hierarchy?” The Elf Questions, moss-eyes alight with Interest. “My People Worship those of Fire, War, Life, Death, Justice. Where does Rebirth fit in with the World? Where do You stand before Gods of Old?” 

“Gods of Old?” The Deity repeats, blood trickling from lips. 

“You are not an Old God,” The Prince raises a proud, pale hand, “As far as Gods are Concerned. Your Statue is Different, because you came After.” 

“What does this Bring you?” The God asks cautiously, “This is considered Disrespectful, perhaps Contempt.” 

“This is why I ask before Questioning,” The Prince speaks Impatiently, pretty lips pressing with Irritability, “Disrespect and Contempt are not part of it. You have no need to answer me.” 

“Allow Me to think,” The other murmurs, low as the rumbles of the Earth. “A Moment, Elfling.” 

“It is Well,” The boy replies, settling into the blankets. The puttering anxiety that had led him to Sing lullabies of Youth was easing. He settled further back, Patient, watching his Deity with Respect. 

“I am Different,” Rebirth gifts Their Accepted with the Knowledge, “I am a Conduit for Power. I am a Host of Life-and-Death, Tasked with bringing Things and Those from Pits of The Deceased to Fields of Life. I am a Bringer, not a Creator.” 

“Bringer, not a Creator,” The Elfling curls, holding a soft pillow against his heart, “So Under Those, if You will Forgive me. Do Powers Grow as Time goes on?” 

“You wish to Know too much,” The God creeps ever closer, within the stretch of an arm or swing of a sword, “I will Allow you this. As the Blood of your Labor Freed Me, your Gifting, Worship, Praise, shall Uplift me.” 

“I can directly Effect Your own Standing?” The Prince’s surprise is apparent, flitting over the Lovely features of a young Elf, “I would have Attempted more.” 

“You do much for Me,” The God Soothes, all soft smiles in a face with jutting bone, “I sit upon your bed, Welcomed, you mask your Revulsion not due to Fear, but Warmth. What else can I ask?” 

Rotted fingers brush aside copper curls, claws scratching skin, a split palm brushing Princely brows. Grime smears pale skin, stone-solemn eyes watching the Ethereal Creature.

“You are Welcome,” The Elf speaks, Unafraid, allowing each Touch, “Always. We are Connected, are We not?” 

“We are.” Bone is exposed in fingers that trail over sharp cheekbones, “More than you know. I feel the Tug to you, through Worlds.” 

“Do You?” The Elf gazes, Brashly, into the eyes of a Being Far Beyond. “Is this the reason You Travel to me without Summons?” 

“It is,” The God allows the Elf another glittering shard of Knowledge, “I’ve enjoyed having a Tether, for once. The God of Rebirth has no Home.” 

“Have one with me, then,” The Elf is sprawled and Regal, lean muscle under soft silks. “Rebirth. I’ve nearly quit leaping when You approach suddenly.” 

The other laughs, wetly, inky blood dropping onto smooth and unmarred skin, “You Accept a God, then, Dear One?” 

“I shall,” The other does not flinch at the heave of breath, reek of death, “I am not Frightened of You.” 

“You are not,” The Creatures smiles, too wide and gashed, “I shall make you Feared.” 

“I should hope I am already,” The Fiery child allows curls to be tucked behind pointed ears, “I am Unliked for well reasons.” 

“Excellent,” Another laugh, this one warm as beams of a full moon, “Wonderful. I did not ask, Elfling, if your Friend Forgave you.” 

The other shifts, weighty body now prickled with discomfort. “I am…unsure.” 

Cerulean Blue watches, pupils black as the void, and sits back on bare heels. 

“Would you give Me a Favor, if I asked it of you, Princeling?” 

“I would,” The Prince Responds, “Gladly give You whatever Material thing You Wished.” 

“I know you Treasure your Family over Me,” The God looks down, pores oozing, smile jagged, “And Accept this, also. Know that I am Merciful.” 

“I would have Avoided that,” The Elf looks distressed and the God interrupts. 

“Continue the Song, Crown Prince,” The Deity Requests, “Tonight, I think I am Tired of talking.” 

The other gazes upon Them, a mix of Childish Wonder and a Young Man’s Shyness. 

“I will,” The words are soft as the beat of a sparrow’s feathers, “If you would Stay.” 

“Gladly,” Is the response, and the stars continue traveling overhead. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As the story goes on, I've decided to take the 'completed' status off. I have a lot more worldbuilding I think I'll get to. 
> 
> Language is Sindarin, you might recognize it from it's use in Lord of the Rings.


	5. Chapter 5

A flint is struck, the rock sparking a Flame onto a dry patch of grass. It takes to the kindling well, white wisps brushing the bruised face of an Elven Prince. 

“I call upon my Deity.” The boy is sweating, berry-colored warpaint smearing his face, over his lips. “I beg You for Strength, Health, for Protection.” 

The Elf shifts, armor shifting silently as he reaches for a hand-carved knife of bone. 

“By my offered Blood you rose, take my Blood now in Offering,” Copper curls tremble as muscles quiver, “Given freely, grant me Victory today.” 

“Enough of that, Youngling.” 

Sheer fabric brushes his cheek, a soft and sudden caress. True-green eyes raise to a sharp and shapely face, watching him between a waterfall of golden hair. 

“Rebirth,” The Prince bows his head, ringless fingers pressing against his own chest in salute. “Forgive the Summons-”

“Summons are Expected, Elfling,” The Deity brushes his apologies aside with the elegant wave of a broad-palmed hand, “What has happened to your face?” 

“My People were Ambushed,” The Prince still kneels among dry grass and leaves, Humble and Quiet, “We thought it was merely Scouts. They brought Warriors twentyfold and we are encircled.” 

“No Retreats for you, then?” The God stoops to meet eyes with Their Prince, floating fabric stirring dead plant life. 

“I cannot,” The Elf replies, pretty lips mournful, “So I ask for Your Blessing. I need to go, I have to Fight, I have no more Time.”

Rebirth picks at the sheer fabric around their feet, wiping the blood and dirt from the Elf’s face. They laugh at the shock, stroking over a bruised and dirty cheek. 

“Go Forth and lead yours to Victory,” The Deity says, voice low and gravelly velvet. “Fight Well. Keep My Name on your lips.” 

“Always,” The Princeling inhales, breath brushing the fingers against his face. “Until the End Times, isn’t it?” 

“It is.” Too-blue eyes watch from under blond eyelashes. “Always.”

People are screaming. Elven screams, and the Prince looks over his shoulder. 

He has no time. The Forest is not yet dark and they need to be back into action. They are somehow losing and both Princes are now off the field. 

“Little Princeling-”

“Forgive me for this,” The Prince stands before his Deity does, and this alone is Disrespectful. “One moment.” 

The other looks curious and says nothing about the interruption, though seeing a God blanch is something not everyone must have seen. 

“I have no Time, Rebirth, this is my Brother and I would sooner give my life for him than not,” The Elf is half-supporting a heavily-bleeding Human boy, one he hefts into his God’s arms like a sack of flour in the Imperial Kitchens. 

Shock colors his Deity’s face as the Elf leaves them behind. His decision was disrespect incarnate, worthy of Death, but Rebirth will not kill him and he will make whatever Reparations later. 

His Brother cannot be hurt, he was not speaking flowery nonsense to say he would sooner die than see him killed. 

“I will apologize later,” He insists over his shoulder as orangish light setting red curls alight. 

He slips back to his fleet, crouched and clad in the various greens of the Woodlands. They are waiting Patiently for whatever Ritual he needed to be over and wait now for Orders. 

The Elf stands, tall, straight-spined and Beautiful. There is no circlet on his head, no rings on his fingers, no metal adorning sharply pointed ears. 

Yet he is a King in the making, separating his Followers to avoid being corralled. They must attack next or be caught unaware. They were trapped once and would not be again. 

Elves fight with Deadly precision. They are Swift and Silent. The Elves flit among the trees, half and half in opposite directions. 

The Prince leads his own, front of the line. The sun has been setting and has left them in near Darkness, sinking still. 

Not a leaf stirs, not a branch snapped, Elves draw bows made of steel-inlaid wood, swords made of bones or steel. They wait, let the Enemy approach closer, not realizing their opponents are ready. 

The Prince touches the black metal of his sword, picturing ocean-blue eyes. They must protect his Brother if he asked, shouldn’t They? He had to Trust. For now, he will show the Invaders what happens when one steps onto Elven ground and injures one of their Princes. 

He moves forward, arms swinging in a controlled line. 

Metal meets metal, a solid block with a clack. The Prince looks into the eyes of a Human Intruder, some commonplace Bandit eschewed from nearby towns. 

Arrows whip through the air from both sides, whizzing past the Prince’s form as he gracefully slices through opponents. Blood coats his sword, sticky and splattering with each full swing. 

An arrow, well-directed, embeds itself in his left shoulder. The Prince grits his teeth, barely feeling the barbs scratching his skin. The armor did it’s job, and the Elf relieves someone’s head from their shoulders. 

He is Bloody, Breathtaking, lit by the moonlight through the canopy above. Cold, steely rage marks his movements, lovely and beckoning Death. 

His main Guard is next to him then, the Bandits behind them were obliviated. A war cry, the gathering of double their forces. 

The Prince raised his chin, Forces gathering at his side. 

“Gar-Cuil,” The Elf murmured, wiping a regal brow, and the line attacked. 

The Destruction was brutal. Blood streaked the nearby trees, soiled the grass. By the time the Princeling was offering his Congratulations and sending his Guard to count survivors, another hour was nearly up. 

He finally yanks the arrow out of his shoulder, knowing it hadn’t punctured skin. He snaps the brittle wood in his hands, tossing it to the side. 

Tired, he wipes his sword on the tunic draped below his uniform, staining it scarlet red. He walks away next, towards the brush, waving away any concerned Elves. 

Someone had nicked his leg. He ignores this for now, stumbling into the brush to see two figures standing. 

His Brother looks over at him, frantically confused, still covered in blood but with Clarity in his eyes. 

The Elven Prince opens his arms, Relief coloring his face. 

The God watches, face impassive. 

“Who is this?” His Brother whispers to him, “Who is this supposed to be?”

“Go find your Bodyguard,” The Prince whispers back, “I will be there in a moment.” 

Rebirth is standing with hands clasped, unreadable and worrying. 

The Prince drops back to a knee, legs trembling. He looks like a child afraid to be hit. 

“I could not leave him,” He tries to explain, “I am sorry. I understand it was Disrespect, I had no more choices. Whatever I can do to beg Forgiveness, let me, allow me, I will do whatever you wish.” 

A hand tangles in curled hair, Lovingly, then pulling his head back. 

The Prince was forced to look into the God’s eyes, neck exposed as he stared up into an Immortal face. 

The Deity smiles at him, running hands down both sides of his face. 

“I can Enjoy begging,” Mischief colores too-blue eyes, “But I will not ask for it. You Understand what you asked and made a Choice.” 

“You are not Angry?” The Prince looks surprised. 

“I am not.” 

The Elf smiles, partially, still in disbelief. 

“I do not think I deserve You,” He says, moonlit face still cradled in a God’s hands, “Your Patience and Mercy are much.” 

“Your Diligence and Belief in Me is Heartening,” The God replies, “And I can Understand the Love you have for your Brother.” 

“You Healed him,” The Prince notes, “I did not ask.” 

“No, you did not,” The Deity agrees. “Will you stand a moment, Dearest?” 

The Prince does, bones groaning with wear, begging to be let rest. 

Rebirth regards him almost anew, as if They are searching for something. They reach to brush his face again, rubbing the dirt from his cheeks once more. 

“You still do not Understand much,” The Deity tells him, “I can see this in your eyes. Do not Anger,” They remind him as he bristles, “I’ve done much for you today.” 

The Prince inclines his head apologetically. 

“We shall speak again soon,” The God is watching him oddly, still, but the Prince cannot help a smile. “Go forth, back to your warriors, back to your Brother.” 

“I owe You much,” The Elf insists, daring to catch a Godly hand and kiss the single ring. “And I will Repay You one day.” 

“You have a Lifetime, Beloved,” Rebirth tells him, voice colored in bright amusement, “I am sure you shall.” 

The Elven Prince, left on his own, smiles at the stars with a prayer on his lips.


	6. Chapter 6

Clothed in silver, a glittering circlet settled among coppery curls. Rings clack together with the flowing movements of elegant fingers, prints skimming white marble to touch crumbling leaves. 

The Prince hums, something Old and Revered, reddish eyelashes casting shadows over sharp cheekbones. 

A fountain spills softly over a rock monument, the serene scent of flowers offering Peace to those who would use the room to try and Recover. 

The Healing rooms were Pristine and Peaceful, and so is the Prince. 

Fingertips press against Dying leaves, attempting to stop the Poisons reeking through the veins. His hums turn to sighs, fingers falling to tap against the stone. 

“A Problem, Youngling?” 

“I told You I would be used to You eventually,” The Prince replies, turning to face the Deity. “Greetings, Rebirth. Welcome.” 

“A Welcome,” The Rot is falling from Their face, flesh caught between Their teeth. “Thank you, Dearest.” 

The Harsh and Unfriendly features of the Elf is Softened, a smile Sweet as fresh petals of Springs. It is returned, in the jagged cuts and Rotting blood around the Decayed lips of an Immortal. 

“What is it you have here?” The Deity steps forward on staggering, breaking bones, flesh splitting in a bare leg to review sinew. 

The Prince looks away, stately jaw clenching around Discomfort. 

“As the rest of my Family, I have Healing abilities,” The Boy brushes the Dying leaves of the plant as one caresses a Loved one, “Though Weak. They are near Useless in Battle.” 

“Healing is a good ability to have in Battle,” The God rests Rotting fingers alongside the Prince’s own hands, “Your Bloodline must be Blessed.” 

“Should I ever be able to Wield it, possibly,” The Prince allows, reaching to brush away course curls, “Should I not, Cursed.” 

“I should know about Curses, Dearest,” Rebirth reaching with broken fingers to gently pull clumps of stringing hair away from punctured flesh. “Allow Me.” 

“As You will,” The Prince watches with a tipped head, a soft and Earnest look, hands folded behind a stiff back. 

Oozing flesh outlines Spring leaves, jagged and splitting nails catching on fragile sprigs. The tinge of Death turns greener, a freshness flushing the brittleness from each leaf and twig. 

The Prince abandons Sightly pretense, leaning on elbows to watch like a child seeks the stars. 

“This is barely Impressive, Beloved,” The Deity tells him gently, “I am Rebirth, after all.” 

“It might have sprouted yesterday,” The shimmering Prince ignores his God, enthralled. “In but a moment.” 

The God smiles, warmth flooding the Dead and Cold face, sinew stretching to accommodate a gesture that was never meant to be on such a face. 

“Is This something You can Teach me?” The Prince asks, fire filling forest-green. He looks up, Fierceness softened by Admiration. “Rebirth?” 

“You are Adored, little Annoying One,” The God says warmly, flesh peeling from above Their teeth, “I will show you. Offer Me a hand.” 

Rings of bone and silver thrust themselves forward, the calloused hands of a young King in the making. 

The Deity takes them, flesh squishing against the firmness of Youth, Solemn Ages of Immortal Years lovingly containing the first sparks of Life and a History yet to be made. 

“I know you love to Speak, but Listen,” The Deity teases with soft gargles of vowels, “And Feel. Be Warned that when One Controls Life, One is in Defiance of the World.” 

The circlet on the Prince’s head glitters as he shifts. “I’m afraid I am not Understanding what you mean.” 

“We Interrupt the Cycle of Life with Gifts as these,” The God holds the Prince’s hands by the tips only, a ticklish touch and featherlight. “You can Incur the Wrath of Beings far beyond your Knowledge.” 

The Elven child Listens indeed, features sharp in Understanding. 

“And have You?” The Prince asks. 

“I have,” The Immortal readily admits, “So I ask that you be Careful from now on if you choose to Wield this.” 

“Unlikely that I should be Proficient enough,” The Elf notes. “Thus far my Family hasn’t Angered any Gods we know about.” 

There is Craftiness in the Deity’s features, hidden under slogging and drooping flesh but still Dangerous and Knowing. 

“What have You done?” The Prince’s Prideful voice is sharp. 

“Hush,” The God reaches, Death and Decay reaching the plant before Their fingers ever do. The sap drips black and Smelling, puddling under the leaves. “Attempt for me, Love. Show me.” 

“You haven’t done what I think?” The Boy is no longer asking, voice feathering off into the air near the end. “Rebirth.” 

The God does not answer, but the shadows obscuring the white-stone floor thrash in Delight like the whipping tail of a dog. 

Pretty hands cup leaves in their palms, the crumbling twigs turning to powder at merely a brush. 

The Elf inhales, slowly, eyes closing as the Interrupting Power of Death and Life floods him all at once. 

The ebb and flow of the world is under his fingernails, Power dances along the rush of blood and he is suddenly aglow.

The plant does not slowly filter to Life as it had under Rebirth’s touch. Under the graze of a Fierce and Angry child it flings itself back to life like a paper on fire. 

The Elf Curses, Old and Rude words from the Elder Days quickly mispronounced on a tender tongue. 

The Deity laughs as the boy bounces backwards, shaking his hands like he’d thrust them in fire. 

“You cannot actually Give this to me?” The Prince touches the leaves again but there is no violent reaction this time. Just a touch of soft petals and twig. “This is something I ought to Earn.” 

“Naturally, yes,” The God leans heavily on the table, clumps of flesh sticking to stone, “You ought.” 

“And yet?” The Elf sets his palms down on the table, fingers curling to fists, “Your choice is puzzling.” 

“And it is Mine,” Rebirth reminds him, the cloaking mist about the floor curling around Their ankles, “Consider it a Gift.” 

The Prince folds his arms, glittering silver sleeves spilling over his arms halfway to his knees. 

“I don’t believe I understand what Your role is, to me,” The Elf confessed, all Honesty. 

“You are one to take Advantage of anything of Benefit to you,” The Corpse raises a hand, “Do not Argue, this is exactly why I Bestowed it on you.” 

The Elf looks over at the now spouting foliage, unfurled petals near beaming in the glowing Light of the Healing Rooms. With the Thinking Absence of a quick Mind, he plucks a petal away and turns it in his jeweled fingers. 

“Who did You Anger?” The copper-curled Prince asks, “If I might Ask You, Deity of mine.” 

“That is something you do not have the Right to Know,” Rebirth reaches for the petal in his hands, sending it crumbling into ash. “Though I wasn’t always the way I am Today.” 

“Are You referring to…” The Elven boy gestures to the Rot and Nakedness, “Ah…” 

The God grits the powdered Decay onto the ground, unblinking. 

“Can I Heal You?” The Boy leans on his palms, silver necklace touching the table with the proximity, “If You Bestow a Gift I’m fairly certain You shouldn’t, can’t I use it in Your Benefit?” 

The Tension breaks, and the God smiles once again. 

“It will do Nothing, I am fairly sure,” Rebirth Assures, “But I am not Averse to you trying.” 

The Boy has no Decorum in how Eager he is to reach, Pristine fingers pressing into the gouging wounds marring grey and purple skin. 

There is no flood of Energy, just an Absence, and the sinking of hands into flesh. 

“I cannot use Powers for _My_ own Benefit,” Rebirth tells him, “So I was Certain it would do Nothing, even from you, Loveling.” 

“As I thought, then, this is no simple Gift. You’ve given me something of Yours,” The Prince murmurs, brushing back frazzled, patching hair. “Won’t that Anger Whomever it is You won’t speak of?” 

“Most likely, yes,” Liquid spills from flayed lips as teeth puncture flesh in a jagged smile. “Do not be overly Flattered…I have my own Ends, Dear One.” 

The Prince’s hands slide off with Reluctance, now Dirtied and Stained. 

“I would be useless to Ask, I imagine?” The Boy tucks curls behind pointed ears, “I will not, then. But Know I owe You much still for caring for my Brother. What Ends you Desire, always feel free to Speak for.” 

“So easily Won,” The God’s eyes are cold and depthless as the Mysterious Seas of the East. “What if I were after the Extinction of your Family?” 

“You are not, because You know I would Abandon You for Them,” The Prince speaks Blasphemy with Poise. “No Secrets between Us, Force of Life-And-Death.” 

“No Secrets, Desirous?” The God repeats. “Not many.” 

The Prince moves the newly-Living plant slightly to the left, if only to have something to do. 

“Hone what I have Given you,” The God says as the silence begins to ring, “I may Ask things of you in the future.” 

There is more Quiet, heaviness settling in the atmosphere like dampness before a Storm. 

“I will serve You however I can,” The Elf says with the gentle lilt of the Elven People, “Only Ask when You need.” 

“Rest Easy, Beloved,” The God assures. “There will be much Time yet.” 

“For what?” Forest-green eyes raise again, the reflection of a God lighting them. 

The next moment he was alone again, left in the Healing Rooms with a fresh scoop of Earth and a plant brightly blooming.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm debating whether to start a new tumblr fresh or look for another website of some sort. You tell me, what would be the easiest place for me to talk to you, answer questions, take requests, share projects? Hope you guys are staying healthy in these crazy times.


	7. Chapter 7

In the humid corner of the Caverns, a pool of water runs Fresh through the rock. Steaming, Clean, causing condensation to stick to stone and slowly trail downward. 

The Prince lies, sprawled, in the dip of the rock six times his width and two times deep at it’s middle. 

His pale, unadorned skin brushes smooth stone as he ads more perfume, soft bubbles smelling of Lavender and Rose. He tosses back wet curls as he relaxes once again, closing his eyes against the heat of the air. 

His hands skim the surface of the water, swirling colored soap around his fingers. His pale throat is exposed to the world, Relaxed and for once, not on his guard. 

Water flows across his skin, taking with it the Grime and Anxiety of the day. The Heir rests, brushing soap over lightly-freckled shoulders and along the lines of his collarbone. 

There is an Uncertain Future on the Horizon, his Age is to the point where Responsibility is stacked heaver and heaver onto Uncertain Shoulders. 

Sparring Bruises fair skin, under the foaming water, Worry plagues his Mind. There is much to Fear, far too many Issues to Sort, and he is barely even a Man. 

Well, no Man is he, but of Age he is barely and without the Wisdom of Years, how can one be a Good Ruler? 

“Fretting suits you not, Your Highness,” A voice speaks, and the boy jumps. 

Bringer of Life-and-Death smiles, all golden Glow and Beauty, broad palms clasped lightly behind. 

“I thought you’d kept from Fearing Me lately?” The God teases, “You are white as mountain-peaks.” 

“Deity of mine,” There is Panic in a Noble voice, pitching to younger years, “Forgive me, I- No Summons were-”

“Rarely I Summon do I Receive,” The God interrupts the stammering, “Ease your Fright, Beloved. Assume always that I am here of My own accord.” 

The Prince looks half-drowned and pitiful, with no silver or gold to illuminate his wealth nor tunic or breastplate to magnify his strength. 

“I am Sorry just the same,” The boy is near pressed into the rocks he has backed so far away, “For my indecency.” 

“Indecency?” There is a craftiness again in blue eyes, glittering and Dangerous. “T’was I who stepped foot into _your_ bathing chambers, was it not?” 

The Prince presses his pretty lips together, Unwilling to cast Blame upon his Deity even when the situation is clear. 

The God of Life-and-Death has not wavered in the slightest, eyes gleaming with Motive. 

“Grant me a Wish, Love?” The Creature asks, all aglow and Wonderful, “No, no, do not trouble yourself to leave. You guessed my Desire already, have you?” 

“A bath, I would assume of You,” The Prince somehow has passed mountain-peaks in paleness, “Unless You have a great Wish to stand alone among rock and water.” 

“No, you were correct,” Rebirth says, clever hands skimming frothing bubbles scented like the Elven Valleys, “But you needn’t stand. Unless you Require the entire tub to yourself?” 

With the look of a youngling fox with a paw in metal teeth, the Prince stumbles upon his own words: 

“You do not Wish for it.” 

“Why not?” 

The simple response seems to cause him to Struggle all the more. 

The Deity leans forward, elbows pressed to wet carved rock. In this way, they are nearly the Prince’s height. 

“Do you think I do not Know?” The Immortal voice is low, soft thunder in a canyon paved with prairie grass, “Do you think I do not Understand the way you Crave? The way you shudder when you hear Me speak of My Devotion to you?” 

The Prince is frozen, not even the slightest breath leaving his body. 

“Do you think I am Displeased by it?” The God smiles and Their tone gentles further, “I am not. Does this Reassure you?” 

“Not perhaps as much as You think it may,” The Prince answers after gulping down his Pride, “I tried much not to show my Immoral-”

“Do not,” Rebirth flicks water into the other’s face from a distance of a horse’s pace, “Call it that. As your God, I Accept Gifts of all kinds from you. This is merely another.” 

“Ah,” A confusing spasm of emotion flits, brief as butterfly wings and as impactful as an arrow in the chest. “I see.” 

“Likely not, but be Reassured,” The Deity stands again, straight-backed and Lovely, “I will not if you are too Discomforted by the idea. No Repercussions should ever touch you for that, Dearest.” 

“No,” The Prince straightens from his slouching stance of protection, “Should you wish it, I will Greet you. But it- You must Understand- I am not-”

“Would you be more Comfortable if I were to take on your gender fully?” Rebirth asks with the gentleness of a caretaker, “Would any Anxieties of you ease, Love?” 

“I am…weak to both you might say,” The Prince says helplessly, cringing at his own pathetic tone, a child in the night, “Which might be Discomforting of it’s own Accord-”

“Darling, Darling, I speak of you, not Me,” Rebirth’s soft voice is gossamer wings of a moth, “Attractiveness aside. Will it be better for Me to embrace your gender or a woman’s?”

“I suppose a Man,” The Prince covers his face, herb-tinted water dripping from capable hands, “By the Gods, I am Inane.” 

Rebirth laughs, Delighted, a twinkling sound of Joy and Affection. 

“You are, Beloved,” The God says warmly, “Though not in this way.” 

As They speak, They shift more than normal, not the slight broadening of shoulders in a breath or furling and unfurling of hair, but a definitive turn towards something like a Human Man. 

Though still lean, trim, very Young in appearance, Rebirth looks like a Boy. Androgynous They are still in face, a long nose with sharp cheekbones, a firm jaw and soft browline, but the Anatomy is certainly now…masculine. 

The sheer and floating fabric among Their person falls, caressing each inch of skin with faint whispers. 

The Prince looks away, a type of Greed settling within him that he quells immediately. Such things are not Proper to think about such a Being. 

Rebirth never looks away from Their Elven Follower’s face, stepping into the bath with a pair of strong legs, unadorned and sun-kissed. 

The Prince meant not to be looking, but Weakness buried itself and he glances, briefly, at a Beautiful creature with sun-spun locks, shifting muscle and long lashes of the face. 

His Deity settles Themselves against the rock, worn smooth and warm. They lay back like a lizard in the sunlight, soaking the heat into Their body. 

The Prince cannot take normal-sized breaths, Struck by the Agile and Elegant Creature, a Fascination filling heat-touched expression. 

“It has been many years since I even touched water,” The Deity speaks, tone looped and drawling like the Mountain-People during a Summer day, “I’d never had a Bath.” 

“Wh- never?” The Elf is broken from his thoughts, “No Baths in whatever Realm You Hail from?” 

“Oh, Dearest, in That Place I have Nothing but Pain,” A face twists, reminiscent of a corpse who’s last sight is Terror, “Pain and Torment, Torture beyond Imagination. Only Here, am I Free from Pain. Half of the time, that is to say.” 

The Prince leans, all Horror and Intrigue. “For what purposes is this?! You said before of Angered Gods- who have You crossed for Torment in the Other Realm?” 

The God says nothing at first, water clinging to eyelashes that blink eight times before a reply is heard. 

“I took upon the Curse Voluntarily,” The Deity says finally, in the tone of a man walking to the gallows, “And I bring back the Dead to Live again, anew, and Different. This is My Penance. This is My Payment.” 

“For what?!” The Prince half-stands before realizing where he is, and thinking far better of it. “Are You to say You were not Always such as This?” 

The God looks over, and for a moment the Prince fears he may have Earned himself a Smiting. 

Instead, tense shoulders ease, submerging fully into the soaking waters. 

“Look upon Me, Beloved,” The God sculpts distinct shapes from soaping froth, “What would you say you had before you?” 

The Prince’s expression turns sharp, Disconnection traded for Analytic. 

“Not an Elf,” The Boy said first of all, “And for now, someone born a Boy. A Human Boy, I would Assume until told Otherwise, and from the Mountain Ranges if I can tell from the patterns of Speech You sometimes fall into.” 

The God looks over, endless Ages of Wisdom behind soft eyes that sharpen, not with Displeasure but with something more Hungry. 

“You know you are Clever, so I shan’t have to tell you again, will I?” The Deity exhales slowly, into the heavy and damp air, “Or perhaps I will. You seemed to enjoy that an Immense bit.” 

“What can I do for You?” The Prince asks, moving all the closer, all Golden-Hearted Earnestness and No Sensibility, “Summon You out more? Give You that which would make You Stronger? What would ease Your Suffering, Cherished God of mine?” 

“Every word from your lips is Foolhardy and Young,” The God lays with open limbs even as They bat him away with Their words, “You are Fortunate to be in my Care, Dearest. What would you do in the hands of an Underhanded God?” 

“I don’t believe They’d have shown Themselves to me,” The Prince says brusquely. “Only You.” 

“Only I,” The Deity brushes Their own lips, drawing water over chapped ridges, “You may be correct, in this instance.” 

“I know that I am,” The Prince has one hand braced against the same rock with which They rest Their head, looking down upon the Deity sprawled lazily before him. “And I ask You again, begging no cast-aside this time. Am I doing all that I can for You?” 

“And then some, Loveling,” The Deity shifts and legs brush, skin on skin contact that nearly sends the Elf staggering. “Oh, Beloved, does no one ever touch you that you’d jump like that?” 

“Not _naked_ normally, no,” The Elf bursts with impatience before seemingly realizing to whom he speaks. “Ah-”

“Apologize and I will drown you here and now, Darling,” The God threatens, a cold threat undermined by a hand drawing a line from the underside of an Elven throat to mid-chest. “Are you saying you do _not_ have eight Elven-maids sitting in your chambers waiting for you?” 

“What on Earth would I do with eight Elven-Maidens?” The other struggles to remain Composed, though his body is flushed pink. 

“Did you want suggestions or is this rhetorical?” The Deity’s eyes twinkle. “And eight Elven Lords, of course, I haven’t forgotten.” 

“Half my Lords are Women, actually, so we’re back to the Maidens,” The Elf is beginning to look cross. “I do not like talking about this in Your presence.” 

“Afraid to Offend me?” The God asks, amused, chasing freckles over shoulders. 

“No,” The Elf’s expression is firm, Unafraid, and for the first since entrance, the God is treated to Lordliness and Regality. “I want Your attention right now, Sixteen Lords and Maidens be damned.” 

A broad palm settles over a pounding heart, burning from the inside out with it’s sudden fierceness. 

“This is all it takes for you to become so Bold?” The God marvels, voice tinged with Intrigue instead of Ridicule. “I will bathe with you every day hence.” 

“If You were my Equal, I’d have You shut Your mouth,” The Elven Prince snipped, without Apology. 

“And if you saw Me as your Equal, I’d tell you to occupy it more favorably,” Perfect fingers map pale skin, still a respectful distance from the waist, though not without Longing. “But you do not, so I will not.” 

The Prince blinks, then, taking the sentence in, quite in the middle of deciphering it when a loud bang echoed at the door. 

The Elf stood, whirling, automatically drawing Magic to his fingers in kindling fire. 

“Your Royal Highness is Required in the Meeting-Room Posthaste,” A Court Guard speaks through the door, “News from the North, brought of remnants of a team we sent last month.” 

“Remnants?” The Prince asks, fire extinguishing to sizzle among his fingertips. “What of it?!” 

“Posthaste, Your Highness,” The Guard repeats only, and retreats as silently as he came. 

The Prince turns, expecting to see the God disappeared once again. 

Instead, Rebirth is still basking, gaze raking over every new inch of exposed skin. 

Ah. The Prince straightens all the more, realizing it is too late to save any Dignity. 

“Forgive me,” He manages to tumble through the words, “I am Needed.” 

“I could hear,” The God drawls softly, fingers drawing across Their lips. “You best go.” 

“I- Yes.” Rebirth is clearly not in the mind of leaving just yet, forcing the Prince to walk to the edge of the tub and step out, completely bare, under Their watchful and Ravenous eyes. 

He dries himself, pulse thrumming at a hummingbird’s pace, jaw clenched so tightly he imagines he can hear his own teeth creaking. 

“If You would like to stay-” The Elf begins, toweling plastered curls, only to see his God is Absent. 

The Curses he spits are not directed at either of Them, though it would have earned him another splash of water regardless.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rating for...Death? Death that isn't Kenny for once, I suppose.

Fingertips skim carved rock, smearing soot and Blood across worn stone. 

It is the only way to see, funneled smoke pouring through hallways obscuring shimmering stones and extinguishing all; candles, Lives. All that was left turned to Ashes.

Summer-green eyes burn and water, Angry scarlet uniform turned a Desperate and Hopeless grey.

The Elf staggers, begging air into his lungs. 

It is too late, he is Beyond saving. 

He is Proud, Courageous, and did not Die running away. Running towards, rather, as he is always wont to do. Blood seeps through chalky grey robes, from two gouged wounds on his right hand where fingers used to attach.

It is not wise to try and block a wrathful axe-swing with your bare hand, but one’s intuition can be their undoing. 

The Elven Princeling Succumbs. 

Death is slow. Like Sleep. The wounds in his chest, the missing fingers, these are not what Killed him. It was the Smoke, the clouds of air, the very same Fate that Killed his parents an hour prior. 

He slides to the floor, sword clattering, not even feeling his face bash the unforgiving ground. 

The roar of fire is still prevalent, an unescapable Monster, breathing it’s hot and Evil breath down the Prince’s neck. 

The last few sensations are a heavy, hacking chest, until lungs are overwhelmed. Sweat sliding down his neck. A strange coldness around his mouth, stiff fingers, and the Sweet and Desperate Relief of darkness. A wash of coolness against hot-rashing skin. 

Then? Nothingness. Just a wash of Grief, of Sorrow, that mingles and mixes with everyone else’s like rainwater and tears.

The Prince Dies on the cavernous floor, the last of the Family Bloodline extinguished like the fires will be after a month of fighting them. 

His body will be found, by his oldest and dearest friend, who steps over him without Knowing who it is he treads over. 

Burnt beyond recognition, no rings or jewelry adorned to give way to his Identity, the gaping maw and molted skin against skull could have been anyone, and the Guard is just relieved he doesn’t immediately vomit upon seeing it. 

He passes onward. 

Exposed bone in fingers curl inward even as its arm is outstretched, his Friend moves on calling his Name in Vain, as if the gnarled corpse were reaching Desperately and Begging to be Found. 

Time flows onward in Grief, a Bloodline severed and too many Lives lost to be counted. His loss is immeasurable, not just to Politics. But those he leaves Behind.

And yet, in a Place outside of Time, a Prince is in Stasis. 

It’s a faint and heavy feeling. The Prince drapes over air like a man hanged with neither rope nor post. Dark tendrils reach from the ground-if there were any ground to begin with- tapered ends brushing fingertips. 

For the first time in this Land, something sifts in Life-giving Breaths. 

The Prince lifts his head, long hair drifting below his shoulders in frizzing tendrils. His eyelids are heavy, his cracked lips purplish at the edges. But Breath spills between them regardless, a hazy Knowing surrounding a clouded Mind. 

A rotted hand slimes across his face, under his chin, lifting it, lank hair falling over a Regal face. 

The Prince can say Nothing, feel Nothing, think Nothing. It is a solemn Stasis, an Eternal sleep. 

Were it not for a Fortunate choice in Deity. 

“Youngling Prince;” The Ethereal voice comes from everywhere but Their mouth, the very Air and Earth and Sky Nothing but Their Voice. “I need you back.” 

The Prince’s head attempts to loll, caught gently between hands and forced back upwards. 

The Filthy, split face comes slowly into view, three blurred images coming into a singular Clarity. 

“Rebirth,” The Prince’s voice was stripped, brought to the brink of consciousness. 

“It is best that I am,” Blood oozes from splits in broken fingers, smearing black-purple across a gaunt face, “Oh, Dear one. You were nearly gone from Me.” 

There is no response, just a blank Stare off into some invisible horizon. 

“My Love,” Rebirth’s voice softens, “Your Highness.” 

A sharp cheekbone shifts, pressing into split palms, a Tender and Vulnerable gesture.

“Ah,” The Deity brushes long curls back away from the Horror-scarred face. “Dearest. You can hear Me?” 

The Prince attempts Speech on Instinct, finding himself Silent as the word swirling around him. There is Nothing that will make it past his throat. 

He attempts no longer, losing himself again in the Abyss. 

The God stays still, a moment, cupping ghostly skin in bleeding hands. 

“Stay Vigilant with me,” His Deity commands of him, “Or else be swept away Forever. It’s a poor fate, Beloved. Nearly as poor as mine was.” 

The Prince is reminded of taking hits in the training yard. Of rock and wood hitting bone, of gritting your teeth and picking yourself back up again. 

“Rebirth,” The Prince reaches again, not so much in Body as in Spirit, a glowing, fiery Inferno reaching for Darkness itself. 

“I am here.” 

The words are enough. Dirtied and bloodied on the training grounds, a Prince stands up with a Defiant air, Proud and Unbeatable. 

In the World-Between, he opens his eyes. 

His Deity blocks his Sight, Tender smile set in a Corpse’s face. 

“Mustn’t look on the Horrors of this World,” The God tuts, “Lest you become crazier than you already are.”

“Where am I?” The Prince Knows, somehow, but it is the first question he can manage. 

“There is no word for it,” His Deity pets back his hair, letting each tendril drip off Their fingers, “And never has been. Welcome to Here. Where It always Is.” 

His brain is sluggish, as if he’d woken from a Feverish nap. But the Elf is Clever, on the brink of Brilliant, and Quick. 

“I am Dead.” 

“You are neither Dead nor Living,” Rebirth tells him, “Only Here. But yes, you did Die.” 

The muggy feelings of Confusion and Exhaustion melt into Horror. Grief. 

“My Brother…My Parents…all of my Friends…” 

Extinguished like the burning of dry leaves in Autumn. Wisping away on the winds afterwards, to henceforth never be seen.

The Deity’s too-blue eyes are soft in Understanding, a shimmering ray of Joy.

“Your Brother lives, Dear One.” 

The Prince’s chin lifts, a Fire flooding grey veins. 

His God’s smile is sweet, clumps of flesh melting off the bone as his own must have weeks prior. “Your Sacrifice was not in Vain. Those who Diverted in Search of you, Perished. Along with you, I’m afraid.” 

Still. The Prince near feels his heart begin to beat once more. 

He reaches, gently clasping squishing forearms, feet slowly touching an invisible solid. “And my Parents?” 

Rebirth says Nothing, though Their face is solemn, looking between the Prince’s eyes. 

So his last clear image remains True. There are no amount of words he can submit to express his Sorrow. And there will never be. 

That solidifies his Ire unlike anything else, and the Prince straightens, a Ferocity burning brighter than anything the In-Between can hold. 

“Take me back.” 

Dark Shapes loom overhead, and Rebirth takes care that he cannot see Them. 

“This _is_ something I can do,” His Deity tells him, “But there will be Consequences.” 

“I will take them,” The Prince speaks, voice still cracked but tone firm. 

“Then I will place you back as best that I can,” Rebirth inclined Their head, “You shall look the same. But things will change, after being forced to reside Here, things you cannot begin to Imagine.” 

The boy shakes his head, and his God continues. 

“-And there will always be a chance you will not Make It.” 

The smell of searing Flesh was still embedded in his Senses. The Horrors he’d seen replaying behind his eyelids for however long on end. 

“You are…Determined,” The God muses, dark, thinning hair brushing his own face. “I can see it in Your Eyes.” 

“For many reasons, for Eternity and whatever lies After,” The Elf presses his forehead to decaying Flesh, Ethereal eyes watching back, “I should be Grateful it was You I chose.” 

“As am I,” The Deity replies, warmth covering each word like summer honey, “And Forever.” 

He smiles, then, something Bright and Beautiful. “I will either right these Wrongs,” The Prince croaks, “Or Perish. Place me, Beloved God, Adored Friend.” 

“Dear One,” The God replies, smile twisting, “Your Prayers are Heard. Be Blessed with the extent of My Powers for all Times.” 

There is a burning sensation, so like the inferno He felt from the inside out that He checks to see if He is not afire again. 

Everything fades, into the molten-cool sensation, the Darkness and Everlasting color of eyes too Blue to be Human, Elf, or Orc. 

The words ring in the Empty Place, as His body undergoes a Metamorphosis. 

“Go Forth, and be _Reborn_.”


End file.
